


Saviour

by Literarion



Series: Naturally [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Crucifixion of Jesus 33 AD (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 08:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Literarion/pseuds/Literarion
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale share the god parentage to theantichrist. what is less well known is their role in the life of Christ.





	Saviour

**Golgatha, 33 ad**

The afternoon sun burns down on the three crosses on the hill of Golgotha. The small crowd of onlookers stares at the slackened body on the middle cross in shocked silence, still unbelieving that their friend has passed away.

Aziraphale tugs on Crowley's sleeve. "We should leave, my dear."

Crowley turns her head, looks down at the angel blankly. "…what?"

"We should leave," the angel repeats. "There is nothing left for us to do here. We'd better avoid notice by his followers."

Crowley looks around, and notices that indeed, the only other people left on the hill are Jesus' close friends. It doesn't seem to be suitable company for a demon. And given the anger burning in the eyes of some of them, may not be quite safe for an angel, either. The demon pulls herself together. "Right. Let's go," she says, but does not move.

Aziraphale grabs her wrist and tugs gently, until she jerks into action and slowly follows his lead. "Drinks?" the angel suggests, and Crowley nods in agreement. "Yeah, drinks. Just what I need after that … display."

"True. Same," the angel responds, unusually short-lipped, picking his way down the hill. Crowley lets herself be towed behind the angel, then slowly finds her gracious stride - slightly more gracious in her current form. She seems to flow more than walk down the hill beside the angel. 'Maybe the wider hip bones work as a better counterweight to that serpentine spine?' Aziraphale ponders.

"There's an inn over by the river," Crowley suggests, pulling him out of his musings.

"Good," Aziraphale replies, slightly rattled, and turns their steps towards the water. They walk side by side, silently, only the gurgling sound of the river beside them. This far off, they cannot hear the vibration of the town. Everything seems oddly calm, the roads suspiciously empty. Sacrifices will do that to humans; they may not understand what it is that keeps them away from the streets, huddled with their loved ones indoors, but the angel cannot deny their instinctive reaction to the day's events.

Crowley's head remains bowed, and Aziraphale cannot tell whether it is in contemplation, or exhaustion, or both. "You said you knew him," the demon finally offers, picking up the conversation they had dropped out of when the sun was a good deal higher up on the hill.

"Oh, of course I did. He was hard to miss." The angel sound reverent. 'That's what a messiah would do to an angel, even a principality, isn't it?' Crowley follows his own musings. "It was a social association though, not work. Upstairs had Gabriel deal with him personally," Aziraphale continues, sounding sour.

"Oh?" Crowley looks up at him, an eyebrow raised in surprise. "Not a clever move, is it? Having you stationed here for four thousand years, then giving the top job to some nutcase with no field experience?"

"Well," Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley can tell from the twitch at the corner of his mouth, not quite daring to be a smirk, that she hit the nail on the head. "As I may have mentioned before, I am not consulted on policy decisions," the angel forces out, his misery now obvious.

"Right," Crowley says, sinking back into her musings. The angel trails behind her as she leads the way through the town, across a bridge, and stops in front of a nondescript building. The heavy, oaken door is closed, neither light nor sound emanates from inside. A sign above the door is the only indication that this is, in fact, an inn. The place looks about as desolate as Crowley feels. It seems a fitting establishment for a day like today.

"This is the place," the demon offers. "It doesn't look the part, but the wine is decent. I haven't tried the food though."

"No matter. I'm not hungry."

Crowley raises the eyebrow again, higher this time. "Right," she repeats. She pushes the door open, and stirs the angel toward a table in the far corner. She waves at a serving maid, and orders two cups of wine.

The angel looks around the room with limited interest. "How did you meet him? You said you showed him the world? That sounds like you knew him quite well?" he asks, finally, coming yet again back to their earlier conversation.

This is normal for them, the ebb and flow, each of them losing themselves in their own thoughts along the way. Especially on a day like today. They didn't always know what the big events would be, of course. Neither of them had thought that Socrates would be the lasting influence from their time in Greece. Crowley had his money on Themistius, while Aziraphale swore Aristophane's work would last. The angel was closer to the truth, this time, though only by extension of Socrates' glory. That was beside the point, though. The point was that, aside from all their occult or ethereal powers, their life experience and immortality, they were not clairvoyants. They may have a better historical view on developments, but ultimately, they were just as caught up in the moment as the humans around them, watching history unfold. Not so this time. There was little that could be argued about the potential impact of the life and death of Her son. The difference being, of course, that they had first-hand experience not only with the son, but also with the otherwise absent parent.

"Oh, I'm not sure that's how I'd call it, angel. It's been a work assignment for me, actually." Crowley grimaces, rather uncomfortably admitting to this truth.

"Oh?" The angel's reaction was predictable. His eyes flash up to the demon, a glimmer of something in-between envy and jealousy, neither of which is particularly suitable to an ethereal being like him. Crowley does not comment, but plunges on. "Downstairs wanted to know if he was the real deal, so to speak. Show the humans how he wasn't, more like. They had me tempt him." She grimaces again.

"Oh!" Aziraphale stares at her, and this time the jealousy in his look is undeniable, and Crowley is surprised, for a moment, before he realizes just where this jealousy would be directed. Fortunately, it's only Crowley who's looking, who knows, and it's not like she'll tell anyone. She can't prevent the smile that crinkles her lips in response though. "Well, yes. Do you think I'd stay in this form of my own accord, for four solid years? I mean, not that I wouldn't, now and then, but you know how uncomfortable it makes me to shift for extended periods."

Aziraphale seems to relax, but only slightly. The serving maid places the wine on the table. He raises one cup and tips it slightly in Crowley's direction in toast. "To Christ?" he suggests.

"More like the inability of our respective home offices to pick the best angel, fallen or otherwise, for any job." She toasts back, nods at the angel, and then sips her wine, letting it roll over her tongue in contemplation. "You'd have done better than Gabriel. Any demon would have done better than me."

Aziraphale snorts, but does not comment. He takes another gulp from his own cup instead. "Am I to imagine this was a purely physical temptation, then? Seems a bit … low, even for your lot. This was Her son! They can't possibly have thought …" he trails off.

"Well, but they didn't know that, now, did they?" Crowley points out, a smirk in the corner of her mouth. "It was obvious once you met him, of course, but it's not as if they'd bother to come up themselves to look! And in doubt, sex is always the first stop, you know that. One of the easiest sins. They always _want_ to give in to that one."

The angel looks increasingly uncomfortable, the tips of his ears turned slightly red, and he avoids Crowley's gaze.

"I hate it," she prompts.

At that, Aziraphale looks up. "What?"

"Physical temptations. Sex. I guess … well, it's work, innit? I can't imagine Gabriel getting off on blessing a virgin with a child. Or you miracling injuries away or whatever. Not much difference, really, for me tempting humans. Downstairs says it needs to be done, and I'm the only one around to do the doing. No say in policy decisions, just like you."

Aziraphale still stares at her, a bit less tightly strung, but still tense, like a bow that's relaxed from active combat to some waiting position, aware that there is no immediate threat, but not quite sure the danger has past. "Ah?" he enquires.

"Well, yes. Eh, no. Anyway." Crowley has yet again managed to maneuver herself into a Situation, and retreats to the last safe thread of conversation to recover it. "It was more than just that, actually. I did indeed show him the kingdoms of the world, as I said. He was rather not interested in any of it though. Wouldn't touch me. Wouldn't miracle for anything. Wouldn't even consider ruling. Odd, really, if you think about it. He was human, at least in part, wasn't he? The desire for dominion should have been in his nature!"

"I suppose he was. At least in part. But the rest of him…" Aziraphale's reply hangs in the air between them, unfinished. It doesn't need to be, though. They are both quite aware of what he was.

"Well. So much for the real deal." Crowley comments drily, and downs the remainder of her wine. Aziraphale waves for a new round automatically. "What was he like?" she finally asks the angel. "I mean, I hung about his lot, and _met_ him, I know he can resist temptations of various sorts. But it's not like we were friends, exactly."

"Oh, just like you'd expect, in a way, and really rather not, in others." Aziraphale's eyes get just a touch brighter as he talks, then falters slightly. "He _was_ Her son, and he inherited some of Her mannerisms. Wouldn't ever answer a question straight, constantly overestimated the virtue of everyone around him. How else could you explain that business with Judas?!" the angel spits the name out, then seems to realize something, and his gaze locks onto Crowley. "That wasn't you, was it? Please tell me that wasn't you."

"Couldn't have been, angel. Didn't I just tell you I spent the last few years in this shape? Pretty sure Judas was distinctly male."

"Right. Right." The angel seems relieved. Their second round of wine is delivered. He grasps a cup, takes a sip and continues. "Well. Anyway. He was a grand preacher. A great _teacher_. He knew people. But he didn't quite know how to deal with them in person."

"Remind you of anyone?" Crowley mumbles into her own cup.

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow at her. "You were saying?"

"Nothing, nothing. You were telling me about his teaching. You said his main lesson was for people to be kind to one another? Can't have known people very well, indeed." Crowley downs her second cup of wine, and Aziraphale waves for the serving maid to bring a carafe next. Crowley hums in appreciation - they are going to need it.

"Still. What a way to go. For someone like him." She doesn't say "someone like us" out loud, but the angel will know what she's thinking about regardless. It's not like they go through corporations at a particularly high rate, but both of them _have_ experienced physical death, and while it is never a pleasant experience, there's better ways to go than hours of pain on a cross on a hill.

"True." Aziraphale responds, and a shadow draws over his features. Crowley knows they both remember the angel’s last discorporation, which involved an unfortunately well aimed arrow, and the equally unfortunately rather too late arrival of the demon. Crowley had been in time to see him go, with no opportunity to do anything to prevent it. It would have been hard to argue spending a miracle to save an angel, but at least it would have been quick. It had taken a decade for Aziraphale to be issued a new body. Crowley had learned the true meaning of boredom in that time. Not that they were in the habit of meeting up with any regularity, no. But there had always been the _possibility_ to meet the angel, and Crowley had found himself slightly at a loss as to what to do with himself when that possibility was taken away from him.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale asks softly. 

"Uhh, sorry. Yes. You were saying?" The demon startles at the realization that she's been staring at the angel with a slightly distant look in her eyes.

Aziraphale smiles back at her, radiant. "You asked about his teachings. He preached love, Crowley. For humans to love one another. Love their friends. Their neighbors. Even their enemies. I thought he made a few good points."

The demon glances over at the angel. It's a meaningful glance, it has weight, a sort of gravity of its own, and Aziraphale seems to feel it. Crowley finds his eyes and locks to them, not blinking, not letting go. Her wide gold-bathed pupils say as clearly as the angels' words what he reads into Jesus' teachings: Love everything, even your enemies. This is _Her son_, not some lunatic preacher. And if _He_ preaches it, then that would make this bond between them, that neither of them _ever_ acknowledges directly, not only allowed, but _sacred_.

Aziraphale stares back at her, looking somewhat smug, but slightly haunted all the same. Neither of them has ever dared refer to it so directly in words, and Aziraphale obviously does not know how to maneuver himself out of this Situation he just created for himself. It's one thing for Christ to preach love in general. It's quite another for an angel to speak of this particular instance of it, out loud.

"Oh, never mind what he preaches," Crowley picks up the conversation to spare the angel the necessity to go on. "Imagine all the weird things humans are going to make out of what he taught. Give it a few centuries, a couple millennia, and they'll have twisted it all out of context so far that his 'followers' will fill the ranks of hell in droves. Really, I should make a note of that for a future report. Can't stake a claim to a success like that too early!"

The angel gulps, considering the demon's suggestion, though obviously still reminiscing his earlier statement. "I'm afraid you may have a point as well," he breathes. This is as close as he's going to get to acknowledging that there _had been_ a Situation at all, and they both know it. It's fine; what they have is larger than words anyway. A shadow of a smile dances over the corner of Crowley's mouth, reflecting the brief sparkle in Aziraphale's eyes, then the demon refills his cup. And just like that, the moment is over, they return to drinking, and continue to do so into the morning.

Three days later, when a certain grave is found missing a certain Son of God, Aziraphale has already left the area. Crowley, back in his preferred form and therefore out of immediate danger of recognition, sticks around. He has nothing better to do, no new directives from downstairs, and spends his time drinking more of the actually rather decent wine in the inn. He observes, and can't help but miss the angel, the conversation, the shared reflection on this new development. Resurrection, really! Turns out that even She can still surprise them both. He takes notes, to make sure he can fill Aziraphale in when they meet next.

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [vol_ctrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vol_ctrl/pseuds/vol_ctrl) for the beta!


End file.
